Chuck and I met another couple last night (I told you this would happen). They were sitting at the table next to us at a new restaurant that opened in Mulletville (and it wasn’t a chain restaurant! Woohoo!). Like all non mullet-wearing people who encounter other non mullet-wearing people while out and about in Mulletville, we asked the obvious question:
Where are you from?
They said Milford. When their turn came to ask, the husband said to me, “Wait, don’t tell me, I want to guess. Pennsylvania, right?”
“Why do you think I’m from Pennsylvania?” I asked.
“You have an Amish look about you.”
Amish? What gave it away? My buggy? My frocks? I thought we stopped all that Amish business in high school. I’m all grown up now. I wear lip gloss. Sometimes I even—gasp!—wear low cut shirts and heels. Even though I may have chops—I said may—I don’t try to cover them up with one of these:
The wife started laughing and said not to worry, honey. She confided that her husband’s guessing game is just an insider’s joke she and hubs share as a segue into her talents: clairvoyance and past life regression.
Chuck’s eyes lit up (I’ll be honest here: The best and worst thing about Chuck is that he would buy magic beans on the street). My eyes were squinty and shooting death rays. Do not call me honey—or Amish.
The woman stared at Chuck for a few seconds then said: “You’ve never been here before. You are a new spirit. Because you are…you are…an alien spirit.”
Chuck just about rocket shipped off his chair with glee. His eyes teared up and he slapped his knee about 400 times (as in, by golly, finally a woman who understands me). My death rays turned into death rays made of poison and killer bees and STDs. Do you know what you’ve done? I wanted to shout. You’ve just given my husband, a man obsessed with
ammunition. It’s like giving an alcoholic an extra liver. It’s carte
blanche to become even more Trekkified.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Dear God nooooooooooooo.
I gave the couple a pained smile that said, “We’re done with you leave us alone don’t even think of talking to us anymore.” The whole dinner, Chuck's smile was about to pop off his face.
On the ride home I kept thinking about the freakazoid couple. To me, I’m your average brunette who dresses like she she’s going to work—every day. And Chuck’s your average bald guy with nice white teeth and a smoking badonkadonk. But to the world…do we really look like this?
I mean shit, that's a pretty ugly Christmas card.
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